


Intemerate

by Mystical



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkward Sex, Childhood Friends, Fingering, First Time, Humanstuck, M/M, Slight D/s Dynamics, best friends who do the do because why not, binary transgender character, dfab transgender character, handjobs, sleepover, transgender character, transgender karkat, wow tagging things is much easier when you've read the work. who knew.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3579234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical/pseuds/Mystical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” you snark back idly, distracted by the deliberate motions of his fingers over your skin. “Maybe you’re so sexually incompetent I’ll swear off dick forever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intemerate

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/901119?view_adult=true).
> 
> Applying JohnDave tropes to other pairings is my lifeblood.
> 
> (of course I come back from months-long writing hiatus with porn)

"What?"

Sollux smiles at you, that slow indulgent curl of his lips, the catlike grin, and you're thankful for your dark skin and your dark room because your face is flushed and he--that--he can't have just suggested nope you're not thinking about it, you don't want to break your brain. Defensively, you sink further into your pillow, shrink further into the blankets though fat load of good that'll do considering you're both under the same sheets.

He doesn't stop grinning. "Don't say you're not curious," he purrs, or tries to, but his oversized teeth and their magical speech-mangling properties ruins any chance at suave he might've had. Your face warms further. So he. Oh. He actually. Actually meant that. About the--the "experimentation."

You roll your eyes and try to ignore the volcano your face is apparently trying to emulate. "Don't be stupid," you bark at him in an angry whisper, still trying to wrap your brain around the fact he _actually asked that_. "What--I don't--I'm not--" you sputter, it's absurd, is what it is, and you'd be working your way to a full-blown tantrum if you didn't hear the rest of your family moving around upstairs, thankfully ignoring the both of you after you went to bed. "What is _wrong_ with you?" you finally ask, kicking his leg.

He places his hand on your hip and your brain short circuits. "I'm serious, KK," he says, and sidles closer, and you don't flinch because you've done this before, tangled his stick-skinny limbs in yours, sometimes forcibly when he's maniac and in the middle of a three day coding frenzy without eating or sleeping and he kicks and screams as you wrestle him into the bed and you hold him there until exhaustion slowly leeches the fight from his limbs, and even when you were a girl no one questioned it because you've known each other since you were 3 and you poke and prod and snark at each other but you're basically attached at the hip and it shouldn't. Shouldn't spill into whatever this is, and his heterochromatic eyes shouldn't be practically glowing in the dim glow of your crab-shaped nightlight that you pretend to keep to indulge in your dad's nostalgia and not because of sentimental value or because you're scared of the dark.

You push him away. Or at least that was the intent. Instead, you shove half-heartedly at his shoulder and both of you know you can wrestle him to the ground in half a minute and have him screaming uncle with both hands tied behind your back. He drops his head, hides his face in the crook of your neck and everything about him is so achingly familiar. "Not like it’ll change anything," he mumbles, and you know the tell-tale signs of him giving up, conceding defeat, curling up within himself and his thoughts and berating himself on a terrible idea. "Fuck, nevermind, you're right, this is stupid," and he starts to pull away.

Dejectedly, you grab his arm and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t decide things for me, moron,” you snap, and literally feel him perk up.

“Wait, really?”

“What did I _just_ say?”

“That wasn’t a yes or no, KK,” he points out, and you rub the bridge of your nose and wonder what you did in your previous life to be saddled with Sollux as your best friend.

“ _Yes,_ ” you snap. “Yes, okay, fucking yes, now let’s get this trainwreck on the road before I change my mind.”

He chuckles beside you and doodles his fingertips over your waist. “You won’t change your mind.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” you snark back idly, distracted by the deliberate motions of his fingers over your skin. “Maybe you’re so sexually incompetent I’ll swear off dick forever. And stop that,” you swat his fingers, “it tickles.”

He pauses. “Eager, huh?” He asks, dropping his voice at another failed attempted seductive drawl, waggling his eyebrows and you almost shove him off the bed. You would’ve, if he hadn’t caught himself at the edge, laughing that obnoxious asshole laugh.

He’s still snickering as you drag him into position, not resisting like he would’ve done if this were one of your usual wrestling matches. “Unbelievable,” you mutter. “You’re unbelievable, what the fuck is wrong with you,” and the blanket’s fallen away, revealing both of you in your sleep shirts and boxers, and you settle at his thighs so he can’t move his legs, idly pushing the blanket away so it pools at his ankles.

Sollux finally seems to recognize the position you’re in. “Wow, hi there,” and there’s a faint flush of colour at his cheeks, and he can’t be serious, and when you continue to stare flatly at him he squirms and turns his head aside.

“What, finally embarrassed now that you’re not running the show?”

“Shut up, KK.”

“Whatever, dickmunch.” You’re not even looking at his face anymore, flicking your gaze down to the cloth-covered torso in front of you.

So. You’re doing this.

You’re making this nope fuck no you’re not referencing Strider’s shitty comics in the middle of. Of whatever this is.

Briefly, you consider taking off his shirt, but it’s not like you haven’t seen his torso before. And he might ask the same favour of you, but you don’t want your heavy breasts hanging out all akimbo and getting in the way while you fondle his junk. At least with your shirt on, you can pretend they don’t exist.

When your hands find the waistband of his boxers there’s a sharp inhale that you pretend to not notice. If he was hard before, he definitely isn’t now, and you have no sympathy whatsoever because it’s all his fault.

There is a dick behind those boxers.

You are about to touch a dick, and the thought of that is… well. Vertigo rushes through your head and you decide, for one of the rare times in your life, to just. Shut off your brain. And stop thinking.

Yes, that seems like a wonderful idea.

When you glance up, he’s looking at you and biting his lip, which he hurriedly releases once he catches your gaze. “Kark-“

“Shut up,” you say, swatting his stupidly bony hip, and surprisingly, he does, and you’re surprised by the brief flash of irritation you experience when he actually does what you say, because he _did_ actually listen to you, and you don’t know what you’re doing here, and you’re about to touch your best friend’s dick and _there is nothing okay with this oh god you’re going to fuck up you’re going to fuck up everything why did you agree to this—_

Shutting off your brain. Right.

Slowly, giving him enough time to back out, you reach through the slit of his boxers, and you don’t realize he’s holding his breath until he lets it out in a shuddering _whoosh_ when you finally touch his dick.

Wow. You’re holding a dick. This is a thing that’s happening.

You peek at his face again, and his eyes are trained on where your hand disappears into his boxers, brows furrowed. “Don’t look so concerned,” you snap, a lot harsher than you meant to.

Even so, some of the tension bleeds out of his frame because there’s something wrong with Sollux and he gets off on people raging at him or something. … this probably isn’t the best time to use that analogy. “I wasn’t before, but now I am,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Are you just going to touch it? You’re beautiful, honey, but that’s not how this works.”

Right. There is a dick that you’re holding. “What, am I not living up to expectations?” You pull his dick out of his boxers, pretend to critically assess it. “It’s not exactly a pornstar schlong, don’t be so demanding.”

“Yes, KK,” he grouses, breath stuttering when you give his mostly-flaccid prick a squeeze. Ha. “I dream about this every night, your face is always on my mind when I touch myself—ow, be _careful,”_ and apparently you stroked too fast so you just go back to gently squeezing him. “All my past relationships fell through because I pretend they’re you when we make love.”

You stop and glare at him and don’t miss the way his hips twitch, the way his fingers gently curl in your sheets. “You’re a virgin and we both know it.” _Or are you?_ You bite back the unspoken question because—of course he is, if anything else happened he would’ve _told_ you—

“Yeah, well.” And there’s a pleasant tightness in his voice that makes your traitorous crotch ping. “It’s the thought that counts.” And this time he _does_ nudge his hips up and oh. That.

Studiously ignoring the party going on in your boxers, you go back to concentrating on him, running your palm gently up his length, squeezing here and there. By now, he’s nudging his hips up with every sweep of your palm and something dark and possessive curls in your belly that you steadfastly tamp down.

“You don’t,” he starts, and you almost flinch at his voice cutting through the silence of the room. “You. Uh.” And he’s definitely red in the face and you like to think at least some of it is because of you. “Don’t have to be so gentle,” and the redness crawls down his neck and you wonder how far down it goes. “I’m not gonna break.”

“Like this?” And you almost don’t recognize yourself, voice dark and throaty as you curl your fingers around him and stroke and his legs twitch under you.

“Fuck. Yeah, like that,” and his hips are twitching, pushing into your touch, and you don’t know what possesses you to push his stomach down with your other hand but he actually makes a noise at that, a bitten-off whimper. You feel his muscles shift as he forces himself to not buck up and a swamp has mysteriously transported itself into your pants and you feel lightheaded, delirious—he’s breathing hard with each exhale, biting his lips, fingers digging into his palm, the sheets, twitching sporadically under your hand, and he keens when you swipe the clear liquid beading at the head of his dick.

You smirk and ghost your thumb over his slit again, since he likes that so much, and he bites off a soft curse. “Still not living up to expectations?” You ask.

“Sh-shut up, fuck,” he growls, except he doesn’t sound like he means it. He’s trembling as you slide your free hand under his shirt, up his torso, and you’ve seen his chest, felt it, but it’s so different when it’s like this, when you feel his heartbeat thrumming under your hands and he’s burning hot to the touch and you’ve got his dick gripped in your hands—so different, and when you brush over a nipple he actually shoves his palm into his mouth and. Wow.

You tug his hand away and he _whines_ and it goes straight to your crotch. “Fuck, Karkat,” and you never thought you’d hear your name like that, like both a prayer and a curse, and you never thought you’d see that look of desperation on your best friend’s face, and you never dreamed it’d be directed at you. “God, let me-“ he tugs his trapped hand and you resolutely hold it down. “If you don’t want your family to know what we’re doing Karkat let _go_ I’m—I’m—“

Doesn’t he realize he has another hand free? Dumbass. You cock your brow at him. “Guess you’ll just have to quiet,” you say and

his other hand comes up, cups the head of his dick and he bites his lips as his hips jerk and you watch dumbly as white slides down his fingers.

You slowly snake your hand back when his dick stops pulsing, when you feel it softening in our palm. Sollux lies back and breathes, and you shuffle off of him, lie beside him as if on autopilot and tug the blanket up when he starts shivering.

“Be right back,” he mumbles, and vaults over the side of the bed. A few seconds later, you hear the sink running.

Your crotch throbs.

He’s back as quick as he left, sliding under the covers and you’re so wet and aroused it _hurts_ and it should be awkward, it should be paralyzingly awkward, but when he puts his hand on your ribs, over your shirt, you just shudder.

“Okay?” He asks quietly and you almost want to laugh because you should be asking him that, but you just nod, and he wastes no time slipping his hand into your boxers and son of a bitch—

“Your hands are fucking cold,” you bite out, legs clamping over the intrusion because what the fuck.

He just grins at you. “Don’t be so picky,” and nudges you so you’re lying on your back, and when he taps your thighs your legs part quickly, automatically, it shouldn’t be this easy, you shouldn’t be this easy, you should at least put up a token protest—

His fingers ghost over your folds and you moan quietly, unabashedly, pushing your hips up into his hands. “Wow,” you think he says beside you but you’re so beyond caring and he needs to just _touch you already hurry up Sollux I’m not a fragile fucking flower—_

You hadn’t realized you’d said it out loud until his hand comes up, smooths over your forehead, your hair. “Calm down, KK,” he says, smirking, mocking you, and you’d hit him if his fingers didn’t feel like a slice of heaven in your crotch right now.

Or they would, if he’d touch you _right._ For now, he’s just poking around, feeling your folds, occasionally brushing over your clit like he doesn’t know what’s down there—and you realize, fuck, he probably doesn’t. You’re not exactly packing the same parts as him. “Please tell me you know what you’re doing,” you hiss.

“Of course I do,” he says dismissively.

“Dude, I’m fucking serious. If serious is the distance from here to your house I’m the goddamn moon, that’s how serious I am, don’t—don’t—“ he’s pressing a finger into you and you gasp, hips angling down, grinding, fuck it’s not deep enough not wide enough and you’re _aching._ “Don’t b-break, fuck, don’t break anything, at least—shit—at least do this right, I knnnow it might be hard for, for you to wrap your brain around the.” He’s got two fingers in you now, leisurely moving in and out and reaching deeper into you than you’ve ever managed. “The, hnngh, concept of not fucking up—“

“Holy shit, do you ever shut up?” He slowly withdraws his fingers with a _squelch_ that you hear even through the blanket, and your ears heat up. He’s poking around as if he’s looking for something, and when he finally finds your clit you arch your back, bite your lip against another moan that wants to spill out. “Seriously, you’re as bad as Dave.”

 _Don’t compare me to Strider,_ you want to say, but something gets lost in translation in your traitorous brain and what comes out is the most pathetic whimper. “Fuck,” you manage to gasp out when you finally found your voice.

And he just. Just keeps touching you, keeps rubbing, and you grab the sheets, grab the blanket, grab his hair, and he looks more smug than any human should be capable of being, and it just makes sense to yank him down, bite his lip, wipe that self-satisfied look off of his face with your teeth, and when he shoves his tongue in your mouth you moan as you shudder and jerk and writhe around his fingers.

He’s still working at you as you come down, and you bat at his hands because sensitive, ow. Slowly, he snakes his hand out of your boxers, pulls away from your face. When you finally muster enough shits to look at him, there’s a bead of red on his lower lip, and it takes you a full minute to realize it’s because of you.

“Shit—sorry,” you mumble, and you should be freaked out, you should be apologizing more, but there’s a kind of fuzzy warmth settling over you and your crotch keeps twitching and all your limbs feel loose and relaxed.

He looks surprised for a moment before snaking his tongue out and tasting copper. “You should be,” he grouses, wiping his hand on your leg and that’s disgusting and he’s disgusting but for some reason you can’t find it in yourself to care. He settles beside you on his back, adjusts the blankets until he’s comfortable, and closes his eyes.

It takes a few moments for the endorphin rush to clear away, for what just happened to fully sink into your consciousness. And—shit. Shit. _Shit._ Deep breaths, deep breaths—you just jerked him off he just fingerfucked you oh god. That’s not a thing that best friends _do_ and what does that make you now?

On the outside, Sollux looks asleep, but you, you know, you know his body and you know his moods and he’s tense beside you, muscles tight, worry lines creasing his forehead and you know he has to freaking out as bad as you.

“Hey.” You nudge him and his eyes open almost instantaneously. “Hey, uh.” You lick your lips. Your tongue feels swollen in your mouth and you’re tired, so tired but also freaking out. _Deep breaths_ because freaking out won’t help anyone even though there’s pressure building in your chest and he said nothing would change everything will stay the same and he’s a liar, a filthy fucking liar because now there’s all these _feelings_ and you don’t know what to do with them because _that is not a thing you do with friends._

“Just spit it out,” he says, and you hate yourself, you hate yourself for always always always having to ask this but you. You have to. You have to know and he’s just staring at you, impassive—and he says YOU hang around Dave too much.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in. “Are we still friends?” And you hate how small your voice sounds, how shaky and unsure, and you hate yourself for agreeing to this, and you hate him for bringing it up and you hate how he’s the only one you’d let touch you this way because you know he sees you unequivocally as a boy even though he was around when your tits came in and you wore miniskirts and he was the one you ranted at when you got your first period and he skipped school and stayed with you when the pain got so bad you actually had to take a sick day because your body hates you, it not only gave you the wrong organs but half the time those organs don’t even work the right way.

“Yes,” he replies, exasperated but infinitely patient because he hates himself as much as you do and something tight in your chest unravels.

You fall asleep back to back and wake up tangled in a knot, just like you always do.


End file.
